
Copyright)]^.. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



a 0otltv 3t^t 

SHAKESPEAREAN 
DIVERSION'S 

AUTHOR OF "a DICTIONARY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS," "tHE 

STORY OF JANE AUSTEN' S LIFE," "SICUT PATRIBUS 

AND OTHER VERSE," ETC.; AMERICAN EDITOR 

OF THE HENRY IRVING SHAKESPEARE, 

ETC. 




BOSTON 



1909 



Copyright 1909 
Sherman, French &> Company 






LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Tv/o Copies Received 

FEB 17 1909 

Oopyriuiit tntry 

CLASS Oc XXc. No, 

COPY B. 



-Sl^ ^ t ^p e aM.^n a 



TO THE 

OLD CAMBRIDGE SHAKESPEARE ASSOCIATION 

THIS 

LITTLE VOLUME 

IS 

GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED 



PREFATORY NOTE 

The Sixth Act of The Merchant of Venice was 
first printed in the Comhill Booklet for March, 
1903. The /Shakespearean Fantasy now appears 
for the first time in print. 



CONTENTS 

I 

A Shakespeaeean Fantasy ..; w ci i.j i. 1 

II 

The Merchant of Venice . w w w . 49 
Act Sixth. 

Note by William J. Rolfe, Litt. D. . . 6S 



I 

A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Scene I. 

An island in the Middle Seas. A cave is seen 
on the right and before it, under a palm tree, 
Caliban is discovered sleeping. 

Enter Trinculo and Stephano, quarreling. 

Teinculo. Since the day when the old gentle- 
man they call Prospero took it into his bald pate 
lo disappear into air along with a most goodly 
company beside, there's not a bottle to be found i' 
this isle, as I am a good Christian, and, what is 
more, a good Christian man's son. 

Stephano. Bottle me no bottles, Trinculo. 
Had we ne'er shared a battle betwixt us we had not 
been left to bide by ourselves in this whoreson isle in 
the hard service of the man-monster, Caliban, but 
might be in fair Naples at this very hour. 

Teinculo. Sagely said, Master Stephano. 
Thou wast ever wise enow i' the tail o' the event. 
An' thou could'st have looked it thus wisely i' the 
mouth, thou hadst been a made man, Stephano, a 
made man, and a householder, to boot. 
[1] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Stephano. By mine head, a scurvy trick o' the 
King to give us over to a dog's life in this heathen 
isle with a man-monster for a master, and none 
other company beside. 

Trinculo. More wisdom from that mouth of 
thine, most sage Stephano. Thou art indeed be- 
come a second Socrates for sober conclusions. 

Caliban {^awaking^ What, Trinculo ! Get me 
some food, I say, or thy bones shall pay thy 
jape. Get thee hence at once, for a mighty hun- 
ger is come upon me and I would eat. [^To 
Stephano] Sing thou, and caper nimbly the 



while. 



Stephano {^sings and dances clumsUi/] 

A lass I had, 
A lass I had. 
But I've a lass no longer. 
She's dead and cold 
In churchyard mould 
Grim Death he was the stronger. 
Abiel [^invisible^ sings. 

In churchyard mould 
She lieth cold : 
From her dust the violets spring. 
[2] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

To her dark bed 
Have fairies sped 
To sing her welcoming. 

Caliban [alarmed] Methinks like music have 
I heard before 
When Prospero I did serve. And it should bode 
Damn'd Prosperous return then were I slave 
Again, doing his will in everything. 

Stephano. What is this same that sings i' the 
air without lips or body? 

Teinculo [returning with food which he places 
before Caliban] Master Nobody is at his an- 
cient tricks. An' he be a devil, he hath an angel's 
voice. 

Caliban. Retire ye both, for I would be alone. 

[Exeunt Trinculo and Stephano. 

Ariel plays softly on a tabor, scatters poppy 

leaves and departs, leaving Caliban asleep. 



[3] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Scene II. 
A room in the palace at Naples. 

Enter Ferdinand and Miranda. 

Ferdinand. Admir'd Miranda, you are sad, 
and sad 
Am I you should be sad. Then will you not 
Declare what canker eats your tender rose 
That I may kill 't, or what untoward care 
Weighs down your spirit, that I may kiss 't away? 
Miranda. O, my sweet prince, my husband 
Ferdinand, 
In truth I am not well, and yet I am, 
And yet again I am not. What say I? 
It is no fever of the blood, no pain 
That speaks in sharp besetment which doth ail 
Me now. Not these, and yet 'tis somewhat, still. 
And when I bid it down 't will not away. 

Ferdinand. O lov'd Miranda, ope thy soul to 

me. 
Miranda. 'Tis silly, sooth, too simple for 
your ear 
To heed 't, and I unworthy of your love 
To waste a single thought on it. O teach 
Me to forget it utterly. 

[4] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Ferdinand. O sweet, 

And so I will, when I do know what is 't 
Thou would'st forget. 

Miranda. And will you then forgive? 

Ferdinand. I will, and yet I'm sure it is no 
fault 
Needing forgiveness. 

Miranda. You shall hear. In brief. 

Since you will have the truth, I fain would see 
Once more that isle where I beheld you first. 
Might I behold it once again and but 
For once, I then were satisfied, so you 
Were by my side beholding it likewise. 

Ferdinand. Would I might bear thee hence 
within this hour, 
For that dear isle I love because of thee. 
But our philosophers declare the spot 
Was but enchantment rais'd by wizard spells 
And sunk in ocean's maw when Prospero, 
Thy father, will'd it; never yet laid down 
Good solid earth and rock on mortal map 
And chart. How this may be I know not, yet 
Our sailors swear that no such isle there is 
And truly they should know their own realm best. 

Miranda. I'm sure 't was no enchantment. 

Ferdinand. Save the maid 

[5] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Who dwelt upon 't, for she did cast a spell 
About me when these eyes did first behold 
Her there, and naught can take 't away. 

Miranda. Nay, now. 

You jest, sweet sir. 

Ferdinand. No jest, I swear to thee. 

Ariel [siwg-s] 

Where, O where. 
Is the isle so fair? 
'Tis far to the east, 
'Tis far to the west ; 
'Tis here, 'tis there, 
That isle so fair : 
O where, O where? 
'Tis everywhere. 
That isle so fair. 

Miranda. 'Tis Ariel's voice, my Ferdinand, 
but whence — [^sleeps. 

Ferdinand l^dromsilyl The voice we heard 
upon the isle long since. 
Sweet sound, with poppies curiously mix'd — 

[^sleeps. 



[6] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Scene III. 
The island in the Middle Seas. 

Feedinand and Miranda discovered sleeping on 
a grassy mound. Soft music heard. 

Feedinand J^azaaJcing^ With popples mix'd — 
O, I did dream — but where 
Am I? 'Tis strange, and yet not strange. This 

place 
I do remember. Here Miranda saw 
I first — 

MiEANDA \_awakingll 

How say you, husband, I have slept. 
And all I look no now is chang'd, and yet 
Not so, for surely here I dwelt of old 
With Prospero, my father. 

Feedinand. 'Tis naught else 

But the same place, and we transported hence 
Perchance as playthings of some kindly god. 
Hearing thy tale and loving thee. 

MiEANDA. Sweet prince, 

My Ferdinand, then do we wake indeed, 
Or is't enchantment, and a sleep? 

Feedinand. I deem 

It truth, and be it thus, or not, in truth 
[7] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



'Tis pleasant seeming, and we twain will fleet 

The time as happily as when each knew 

The other first. [Caliban approaches, grovelmg 

Caliban \^aside'\ O Setebos, 'tis she, 

Damn'd Prospero's daughter. — Mistress, if it be 
Thou'rt come to rule the isle I'll serve thee well, 
And Prosper© be absent. Him I fear 
As I do dread the awesome thunderstone. 

Ferdinand. Lo ! here come other of his com- 
pany. 

Trinculo and Stephano approach. 
Trinculo. Behold us, gentles, two as unhappy 
wights as ever 'scaped a hanging, or death by at- 
torney. 

Stephano. He speaks very true, as 't were, 
now and then, and we two honest men from Naples 
be now in most wretched case — slaves to the man- 
monster, Caliban. 

Thunder heard. Caliban, Stephano and 
Trinculo disperse by several ways and 
Ferdinand and Miranda retire to a cave 
near by. 



[8] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Scene IV. 

"Another part of the same. 

Enter Prospeuo. 

Prospek-o. My charms yet hold, though long 
disus'd, for I 
Pitying Miranda's melancholy plight 
By magic of mine art have hither brought 
Duke Ferdinand and her that so the twain 
Belov'd may live their first joys o'er again. 
Here shall they speed the time a full month's space, 
In such wise as they list, and then, at whiles. 
Will I for their beguilement cause to pass 
Before their eyes, when they shall sit at ease. 
Weary of wandering o'er the mazy isle, 
Figures of men and women, such, forsooth, 
As Master Shakescene writ of in his plays. 
These in their habit as they liv'd in those 
Same plays I'll re-create for their delight. 
Peopling a mimic world with mimic folk, 
And making so this desert populous. [^Ewit. 



[9] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Scene V. 

Another part of the same. 

A grassy space shaded by palms, before a cave at 
whose entrance Ferdinand and Miranda are 
discovered playing chess. 

Miranda. O Ferdinand, the play was mine. 

Ferdinand. I thought 

'Twas mine, but it shall e'en be as you will ; 
I'll take it back. 

Miranda. Indeed, you should not, prince, 

For whatso'er you do it seemeth right 
To me, and now I see I did mistake. 
Good sooth, I will not have it back. I say, 
I will not have it back — but what are these 
Tending their steps this way? a halting pair. 

Enter Nurse and Peter. 

Nurse. Peter ! 

Peter. Anon. 

Nurse. Take my cloak, Peter. Truly the 
sun's heat hath made me all of a quiver, as they 
say. Marry I would e'en taste a little food be- 
fore I go a step more. I'll warrant you we are 
many a mile from Verona by this. 



[10] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Peter. A good mile, I take it, for I was never 
in this place before that I wot of. 

Nurse. Say'st thou so, Peter? 

Peter. Marry, that do I, and will answer to 't 
before any of womankind, and any of mankind too, 
that be less lusty than I. 

Nurse. Peter! 

Peter. Anon. 

Nurse. Some food, Peter, and presently. 

Peter. Here be strange fruits whose use I 
know not. A serving man of the young county 
Paris's did to my knowing eat an apple that was 
brought from afar in a ship's stomach, being a 
lusty youth and tall and much given to victual, and 
he did swell to bursting and died thereof while one 
might count thirteen by the clock. He made a 
fearsome dead body, as the saying is. 

Nurse. Peter. 

Peter. Anon. 

Nurse. Thou shalt taste these fruits for me 
singly and in order, good Peter, and if no such 
harm come to thee as thou pratest of, then will I 
eat likewise. 

Peter. Nay, but nurse, good nurse, good lady 
nurse — 

Nurse, Hold thy peace, thou scurvy, knave, 
[11] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Would'st suffer me to go nigh to death for lack 
of food and thou stand by the while like a jack o* 
the clock when his hour has struck? Out upon 
thee, and do my pleasure quickly. 

Enter Mercutio and Romeo. 

Mekcutio. Here's fine matter toward. Thy 
Juliet's nurse, and her man Peter, quarrelling. 

Nurse. God ye good den, gentlemen. 

Mercutio. God ye good morrow, most ancient, 
and most fair ancient lady. Thy five wits, me- 
seems, are gone far astray the whiles. 

Nurse. Is it but good morrow? I had sworn 
'twere long past noon, but, indeed, in this strange 
place, as one may say, there's no telling so simple 
a circumstance as the time of day. 

RoMEO. Many things there be of which there's 
no telling, such as the number of times a maid will 
say no, when her mind is to say yes ; how many 
days the wind will sit i' the east when one would 
desire fair weather ; and how many years the tooth- 
less grandsire will wither out a young man's reve- 
nue. 

Nurse. That is all very wisely said, good sir. 
Are you that he they call the young Romeo ? 

Mercutio. He is rightly called Romeo, but as 
for his youth, if knavery be not left out of the 
[13J 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

count, why then was Methusaleh a very babe to 
him, a suckling babe. 

Nurse. Say you so ? Then will I tell my lady 
Juliet so much, an' I can come by her in this 
heathen place. 

Meucittio. Most ancient lady, yon Romeo 
would deceive the devil himself. 

Nukse. Beshrew my heart. Then were my 
young mistress (who, to be sure, is no kind of a 
devil at all, saving your presences), led straight to 
a fool's paradise. She shall know, and presently, 
what a piece of man he is. 

Meecutio \_seeing Miranda and Ferdinand. 

Romeo the young ; young Romeo, 
Forget thy Juliet but a space, for here 

A lady is, fairer than Juliet, [pointing to Mi- 
randa] 
And mine eyes serve me truly. 

Romeo. O how rare 

One pearl's esteem'd until another's found, 
While that becomes the chief, till straight a third 
Shines forth. So is't with me. When Rosaline 

1 saw no lesser she might then with her 
Compare. Next Juliet came athwart my sight, 
And her I lov'd, forgetting Rosaline. 

]3ut jjpw is Capulet'? joung daughter sped 
[13] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



From forth my heart and in her place this fair 
Unknown in JuHet's stead is worshipped. 

He seems about to approach Mieanda, hut 
is withheld hy Mercutio. 
Mercutio. Inconstant Romeo, have a care. 
For me, 
I think her wed, and that the husband there, 
May have a word to change with thee. 

Romeo. Prate not 

To me of husbands, my Mercutio — 

Mercutio. Have peace, rash Romeo, thou — 
But who comes here? 

Enter Ophelia, strewing -flowers. 
Poor, tearful lady ! See, she weeps, and smiles 
Aweeping, wrings her hand, and smiles again. 
RoMEO. She makes as if to speak to us, poor 

soul, 
Ophelia. This is All Hallow Eve. They say 
to-night each Jill may see her Jack that is to 
come. But these be idle tales to juggle us poor 
maids, withal, for I no Jack have found. Cophe- 
tua, they say, was a king who was wed to a beggar 
maid ; a pretty tale is't not ? But there's no truth 
in't; there be no such happenings now, for my 
love was a prince indeed, but we were never wed, and 
now he is gone. [Weeps^ He was a goodly 
[14] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

youth to look on, but he is dead by this and bums 
in hell. '[Smgs'\ 

He is dead who wronged the maid ; 

He is dead, perdy. 
In the grave his bones are laid, 

Hey, and woe is rae. 

O my love was tall and fine ; 

Fair he was to see. 
As light doth from a jewel shine. 

His eyes shined on me. 

I cry your pardon, good people all. But there's 
something lost, I think, and 't will not be found for 
all my searching. 

Enter Hamlet. 

Hamlet. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do 
you not know me? 

Ophelia. No, forsooth ; I did never see you be- 
fore, and yet methinks your eye hath a trick of 
Prince Hamlet's in it. But that's all one, for the 
Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in 
hell for cozening us poor maids. [^Sings^ 

He is dead that wronged the maid ; 
He is dead, perdy. 
[15] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Miranda. I scarce can see for weeping. 
Would there were 
But somewhat I might do to ease her pain, 

FERDINAND. Her woe, me thinketh, is long 
past its cure. 
But look ! here comes a sadder wight than she. 

Enter Constance, •mth hair unbound. 
Constance [to Ophelia] Thy wits are all 
disorder'd as mine own : 
Then might we play at grief as who should know 
The worst, but mine's the heavier. You do mourn 
A lover faithless, I a son whose face. 
So sweet and gracious, made the world for me; 
Perpetual solace to my widowhood. 

Ophelia. I do not know you, but you weep and 
and so do I, and surely that doth make us sisters in 
grief, and so because of that I'll follow you whither 
you list, and you will let me. 

Constance. Come then, and such cold comfort 
as I may 
I'll share with you, but sorrow's cure is not 
For us. Your lover groans in hell ; my son, 
My Arthur, lies within some oubliette. 
Far down beneath the gracious day, dog's food 
His only meat, and cries on me, his mother. 
[16] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Then may I well make friends with stubborn grief, 
Since grief alone the heavens have spar'd to me. 

Ophelia. Sad lady, I will go with you, weep 
when you weep, and be your humble pensioner in 
grief. 

Hamlet \_advancmg'\ Ophelia, stay a little! 
What! not know 
Me yet? Doth recollection show thee naught 
Familiar in these eyes, this face, this form? 
What, faded quite, my love and me, from out 
Thy memory as the summer shower when past 
Is quick forgot with one short hour of sun? 

Ophelia. Love? I know what that doth sig- 
nify. Is not love what we poor maids are fool'd 
with? Thus have they told me, and therefore I'll 
not listen to you, for indeed I never saw you be- 
fore, that I remember, and yet there's something not 
so strange lurks within your speech. But go your 
ways, sweet sir. My Hamlet he is dead, and so I 
care for none of mankind now. [^Sings^ 

He is dead, perdy. 

\^Exeimt Constance and Ophelia. 
Hamlet. Alas, poor maid, I lov'd thee truly 
once 
And still had lov'd, and so had wedded thee 

[17] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



With all due rites, but that my father's ghost 
Did stride between to part us evermore. 
\^Sad music heard^ 

Exit Hamlet slowly. 
Enter Launce leading a dog, 
LatjnCe. What a very dog is this my Crab here 
for a stony-hearted cur! Why but now there met 
us two distressed females weeping their hearts out 
at their eyes, and sighing, moreover, as 'twould 
move a very Turk to pity, and yet this cur took 
no more note on 't than they had been two sticks 
or stones. Why, the Woman of Samaria would 
have plucked out her hair in pity of the twain, 
nay, so would I have done the same in her stead, — 
yet what say I, for there's not so much hair on 
my head as my mother's brass kettle has of its 
cover. A vengeance on 't, now where was I? O, 
truly, I was e'en at the Woman of Samaria. Now, 
good sirs, and gentles all, the Woman of Sa- 
maria had for ruth plucked out her hair, but 
did not my dog Crab, who by your leaves is as 
hairy a dog as goes on one-and-twenty toes, shed 
even one hair in sorrow for the twain : not e'en the 
smallest hair on 's nose. And the matter of the 
meeting was on this wise. This small stone, with 
the crack in 't, is the maid, she with the flowers ; and 
[18] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

I think there be a crack in her wits, but no matter 
for that; this stone, a something bigger, ay, and 
with a crack in 't, too, shall be the lady, with her 
hair all unbound; this tree shall be the dog; nay, 
that's not so neither, for I am the tree and the tree 
is me, and this stick is the dog, and thus it is. 
Now doth the small stone weep as 'twere a foun- 
tain gone astray, and may not speak for weeping ; 
now doth the something bigger stone weep too, yet 
with a difference, and she doth not speak for weep- 
ing either, and truly I did weep likewise and no 
more could speak for my weeping than the poor 
distressed females might, yet there came all the while 
no word of comfort from this dog's mouth, not 
even one tear from his lids. Pray God, gentles all, 
there be no such hard hearts among any of you, 
or 'twere ten thousand pities. 'Tis an ill thing to 
have a sour nature like my dog Crab's, and no 
good comes on 't. 

Nurse. Beshrew my heart, and that is so. My 
Mistress Juliet hath the tenderest and the most piti- 
ful heart that lives in a maid's body, I do think, 
for she will weep by the hour together if she but 
behold a fly caught by the wings in a spider's web. 

Mercutio \_to Romeo] No, Juliet, but a 
Niobe. Eh, man? 
[19] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Romeo. Prate not of Juliet now, for I do love 
Another way from her. 

Mebcutio. O, Romeo, 

Once yet again I tell thee ; have a care ! 

Enter Falstaff. 

Falstaff. This were a goodly place enow, and 
there were sack to be had. 

Tbinculo \^as'ide'\ The fat fellow is verily in 
the right on't, but since the old gentleman Pros- 
pero did give us here the sack there's no sack here 
for the wishing. 

Falstaff [coZZs] Francis. 

Trinculo. I think there be none here by that 
name. 

Falstaff. 'Tis no matter for the name; 
the play 's the thing, the name is mere hollow- 
ness and sound. Here, you fellow with the dog, 
you whoreson shaveling of a man, what is thy 
name? 

Launce. They call me Launce, an' it doth 
please you, sir. 

Falstaff. How if I do not please? Marry, 
and what is then thy name ? Answer to that. 

Launce. I could never i' the world tell that, 
sir, and no more, indeed, sir, could my dog Crab 
[20] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

that's here, who, saving your presence, is the most 
hard-hearted cur ahve. 

Falstaff. No exceptions, good Launce; ex- 
ceptions are the devil's counters, therefore, beware 
of exceptions. But hark you, good man Launce. 
Fetch me here some sack, and let it o'erflow the 
tankard, too, for I've a thirst upon me such as 
Hercules came most honestly by after his twelve 
labours. 

Launce. Please you, sir, I do not know the 
meanings of sack and Hercules. I did never see 
either of the gentlemen you speak of. 

Falstaff. 'Tis no matter for Hercules, but, 
God's pity for 't, to be unacquainted with sack is 
to have lived as a dead man liveth. Sack, good 
Launce, is the prince of roystering blades ; the 
pearl of price; the nonpareil of the world, the — 
nay, there's no fit comparison to be made. Am- 
brosia and nectar together were but ashes i' the 
mouth to 't. 

Trinculo {coming forward^ You speak noth- 
ing aside the matter, sir, as Fm a true man. 
There's nought to be named i' the world before 
sack, and herein, of all places i' the world, there's 
no inn, no sack, no sack within. So you'll e'en 
[21] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



have to stomach that, though you've small stomach 
to't. 

Falstaff. Small stomach, say you? An' you 
denominate this belly of mine a small stomach, 
there's no truth in your tongue. 

Trinculo. And no sack in your stomach, 
either. 

Launce. These be as fine words as ever I heard. 

Falstaff. Now, Sir Shaveling, and who bade 
you to speak.? 

Launce. None, sir. I speak but when I have 
a mind, sir, and I am silent when I have a mind, 
likewise. 

Falstaff. Have a mind to silence and let 
bigger men speak for you. 

Launce. Then I can tell who will do all the 
tongue-wagging, sir, for I spy none here that is 
bigger i' the girth than yourself. 

Falstaff. As for the girth. Shaveling, that 
cometh of sack. 

Trinculo. And pillage of the larder, too, or 
I'm no true woman's son. 

Falstaff. No inn within this heathen isle, no 

sack within the inn ! Is this a fit place to bring a 

good Christian knight? 'T were enough to make 

a man of my sanguine and fiery composition turn 

[22] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Muscovite on the instant, for your Muscovite, as 
I take it, is a most ungodly knave, and an infidel 
to boot, and without a moderate deal of sack, such 
as is needful for a man of my kidney, how is 
Christendom to be kept on its legs? What gives 
the justice discretion? Why, sack! What gives 
the lover whereby to gain the hand of his mistress ? 
Why, sack! What gives the young man a merry 
heart and the old man a sanguine favour? Why, 
sack! What gives the soldier courage in the day 
of battle? Why, sack ! Marry, then, he that hath 
his bellyful of sack hath discretion, courage, a 
ruddy visage, a merry heart and a nimble tongue. 

Launce [a*id'^] The discretion that cometh 
with what he calls sack is e'en but a scurvy kind of 
discretion, to my thinking, for all of the stout gen- 
tleman's saying. Here's Crab, my dog, and he be 
not so niggard of his tongue, could tell so much as 
that comes to, on any day i' the week. 

Falstaff. What be these folk that forswear 
sack? Why, lean anatomies with not so much 
blood in their bodies as would suffice for a flea's 
breakfast. The skin hangs upon their bones for 
all the world like a loose garment. You may feel 
the wind blow through their bodies. 'Twere a sim- 
ple abuse of terms to call such starvelings men: 
[23] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



jour poor forked radish would become the name 
better. 

Miranda. This stout knight hath a nimble wit, 
in sooth, 
But yet he doth not please me, for his eye 
Bespeaks wanton desires, intemperate loves. 
That ill do company his thin grey hairs. 
Soft music heard. 

\_Exeunt Falstaff, Launce, Mercutio, 

Romeo, Nurse and Peter by twos. A 

mist arises, and after a little vanishes. 

Trinculo. a murrain light on all unsociable 

folk. They might have bidden us to be of their 

company, methinks. 

Stephano. Why, man, these are but ghosts 
come from nowhere. By the bones of my dead 
grandsire, I've small mind to turn myself into a 
ghost even thereby to leave this isle and Caliban's 
hard service. But, look you, Prospero's daughter 
and her prince are stayed behind; an' they be not 
ghosts of the same feather I marvel where they 
have bestowed themselves on this isle since Pros- 
pero forsook it. 

Caliban. Will you be ever talking, foal? 
[beats himli take that, 
And make your tongue a prisoner to your teeth. 
[24] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Stephano runs away, crying out loudly the 

•while. 
Enter the Fool and Lear. 
Fool. Good nuncle, here be Christian folk; 
let's bide. The night cometh when a rotten thatch, 
even, is a more comfortable blanket than a skyful 
of little stars. 

Leak \^pointing to Mieanda] What, in Gon- 
eril's palace? Did she not with her own hands 
push her old father out of door? [To Miranda] 
Nay, mistress daughter ; I'll not bide with you. A 
million murrains light upon thy unnatural head; 
ten million plagues bum in thy blood; a million 
million pains lurk in thy wretched bones, thou piece 
of painted earth whom 'twere foul shame to call a 
woman. 

Miranda [affrightedli O Ferdinand, what 
means this strange old man? 
There bums a direful lustre in his eye 
And I do fear some certain harm from him. 

Ferdinand. Sweet, do not so. He is but mad 
o'er some 
Past wrong, and 'tis the quality of such 
To take the true for false, and thus cry out 
On him that's near, the guilty one not by. 
See, he is faint and old, and cannot harm. 
[25] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Fool. Good nuncle, methinks the sun hath 
made of thee a very owl, for she whom thou callest 
upon so loudly is not so eld by twenty summers as 
thy daughter Goneril. 

Lear. 'Tis no matter for that. She is a 
woman and the daughter of a woman, therefore 
she will spin foul lies for her pleasure and bid her 
father out of sight when he is old. 

Fool. Fathers that give away all their sub- 
stance ere they be dead and rotten are like to see 
strange things come to pass. An' thy bald crown 
had been worthy thy golden one it had worn thy 
golden one still and thou wert warm in thy palace. 

Lear. This daughter! O this daughter, 
Goneril. 

Enter King Richard IL 

King Richard. He lieth in his throat that 
swears I am 
No king. 'Tis Bolingbroke doth wear the crown 
He pluck'd from me, but there's no power can wash 
Away a king's anointing. I put it by. 
Being constrain'd, but that constraining told 
Not of my will but my necessity. 

Fool. Lo ! here's another wight that has given 
away his crown [To Richard] Art thou a 
king, too? 

[26] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

King Richard. I am, and England was my 

sovereignty. 
Fool,. Then thou liest abominably, for a king 
that lacks wit to keep his crown on 's head is no 
king, and that's a true saying. 

Lear. Wert thou a king, indeed.? Why so 
was I. 
And hadst thou daughters, black, unnatural.? 
King Richard. Nor daughters nor no sons 
have I to call 
Me father. 

Lear. Then by so much art thou blest. 

Forget not that, poor man that wast a king. 

King Richard. My kingdom was both daugh- 
ter and my son, 
And e'en as Judas sold his master Christ, 
So did my kingdom chaffer for my crown, 
And so deliver'd me to Bolingbroke. 
Fool. Is't he that hath thy crown? 
King Richard. 'Tis he, my sometime subject, 
Bolingbroke : 
He hath my crown and kingdom both, and I 
Of all sad monarchs most disconsolate. 

Fool. Then have we here a pair of kings lack- 
ing both crowns and kingdoms to wear 'em in. 
These be but evil times for kings or fools either; 
[27] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



and to my thinking there's not so great a differ- 
ence betwixt a fool and a king, save that the fool 
may chance be the wiser man of the two. Of a 
surety there was little wit a going begging when 
these twain put their golden crowns from off their 
simple skulls. Though I'm but a fool, and no wise 
man, I were but a fool indeed were I to change 
places with a king. 

Enter King Henry VI. 

King Henry. What sayest thou of kings? 
Kings are but men, 
Cool'd by the same wind as their subjects are, 
And blister'd by the self-same burning sun. 
O happiest are the common folk who toil 
Afield by day, eat scanty fare, and sleep 
Anight unvex'd by cares of state or plots 
Of traitorous nobles envious of a crown. 

Fool. What do I say of kings.? Marry, I 
say they were best to watch well their daughters and 
their kingdoms ; it needs no fool to say so much as 
that. Prithee, art thou a king of the same mould 
as these thou beholdest here in this place? 

King Henry. At scarce nine months was I 
anointed king. 

Fool. Truly, thou serv'st a tender apprentice- 
[28] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

ship to thy business and I marvel the less at thy 
present having. [To Leak.] Good nuncle, here's 
yet another king out at the elbows, one, belike, 
that shook his rattle as 't were a sceptre, and wore 
his porringer on 's head where his crown should 
have been. 

Lear [to King Heney] And thou, too, wert 
a king? 

King Henry. I was, but now 

Am I a king no longer. Edward of March 
Usurps my title and my crown. There come 
No suitors unto me, a shadow prince 
Mated with Madge of Anjou, strong where I 
Am weak, for she loves war, and weak where I 
Am strong, for I am joined to content 
Which she, poor soul, wots little of. 

King Richard. let 

Us make a compact with this same content; 
As which shall joy the most in it, that thus 
The hours shall fleet unhinder'd o'er our heads 
As o'er the shepherd's gazing on his flock 
From out the hawthorn shade. Or what say you. 
Were it not fitter pastime to bewail 
Our loss of crown and kingdom morn by morn, 
Evening by evening, till at last we died 
Of grief.? 

[29] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



King Henky. Wiser it were to strive to find 
What comfort's left to us. 

King Richard. Why, so we will. 

Come, fool, be thou our numbering clock and tell 
Item by item all that's left to us 
Unhappy kings, brothers in wretchedness. 

Leak. A plague upon ye both that will not 
curse 
The authors of your woes, that will not vex 
The heavens with prayers for their undoing. 

Curse 
On curse I'll heap upon the heads of those 
She wolves, my daughters, sprung from out my 

loins ; 
The kingdom's ruin and their father's bane. 

[^Exit raving. 
Fool. Farewell to you both, for I must after 
him that's such an eager spendthrift of his 
curses, and may each of you come upon a kingdom 
to your mind — when the sun shall smite in Jan- 
uary. [^Exit Fool. 
King Henry. A more than common grief 
look'd from his eye 
That roll'd so wildly in his head; pray God 
We keep our wits, whatever else be lost 
To us. 

[30] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

King Richard. And I might see proud Boling- 
broke 
In such a case as his that parted now, 
I deem that I could die full willingly. 

King Henry. Would I were dead, an' it were 
God's good will; 
But whilst I live I ne'er will contrive aught 
Of evil 'gainst mine enemy, nor wish 
Him ill, for so weighs woe the heavier 
On him invoking. Our good captain Christ 
Did bid us to the smiter turn the cheek 
That's smitten yet again, nor harm him not 
For all the mischiefs he doth put on us. 

l^Soft music heard. 
King Richard. How softly steals sweet music 
on the soul, 
Shutting its doors to misery and pain, 
Closing the senses 'gainst all foes without, 
Turning the hard couch unto airy down, 
Dissolving time in melting harmonies. 
O I could list forever to its sound. 
But it, or something stronger, masters me. 

[^Sleeps. 
King Henry. Poor, changeful-hearted man 
that wast a king, 

[31] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Led captive hy each wayward quick caprice. 
Unhappy fate call'd thee unto a throne 
As it did me ; our kingdoms suff er'd f or't. 
Enjoy thy sleep by music underpropt, 
Till waking show thee as thou wert before, 
A crownless monarch weeping for thy crown. 

[Exit King Henry. 

Miranda. My heart is full of pity for these 
kings 
Wanting their crowns. 

Ferdinand. Those crowns had still been worn 
Had they known truly what it is to be 
A king. O, my Miranda, only such 
That are compos'd of strength and gentleness 
In fair proportion mix'd, should e'er essay 
The sceptre. He that may not rule himself 
Is of all monarchs least significant. [Exeunt, 

Scene VI. 

A glade in another part of the island with Ferdi- 
nand and Miranda observed seated at the 
upper end thereof. Nearer at hand a group 
of Athenian citizens. Enter Bottom, wear- 
ing an ass's head. 

Bottom. Masters, you will marvel to behold 
[32] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

me here, but the very truth of the matter is that 
I did fall asleep, and being asleep I did dream, and 
as I did lie a-dreaming I was in a manner trans- 
lated to this place, which methinks is an island, for 
I did espy much water anear as I was brought 
hither. But, masters, I do marvel much to look 
upon you here also. 

Feancis Flute. Methinks, friend Bottom, you 
are not the sole wight in Athens esteemed worthy 
translation. 

Robin Starvemng. How an' we be not trans- 
lated either? 

Peter Quince. Robin Starveling speaks well 
and to the centre of the matter. Know then, good 
bully Bottom, we are translated as yourself, but 
methinks you have lost more in the translating than 
have we; is't not e'en so, masters all? 

All. Right, good Peter Quince. 

Bottom. I have lost nothing that should cause 
you envy, good friends all, and so I assure you. 
[Brays loudly 1 What say you then to my voice? 
Is my voice perished? 

Tom Snout. No, Nick Bottom. 

Bottom. I thank you, good Tom Snout, and 
to show you that I am the same Nick Bottom, 
however my visage may appear altered, for travel 
[33] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



doth greatly age a man, as they say, you shall 
hear me wake the echoes once again. 

{Brays a second time, more loudly. 

Quince. Methinks your voice, good Bottom, 
has lost somewhat of sweetness. 

Bottom. That's all one, good Peter Quince, 
for the simple truth of the matter is that you have 
no such delicate ear for fine harmonies as I am en- 
dow'd with. {Strokes his ears. 

Quince. It doth seem so on more properer con- 
sideration, and I had an ear that were the parallax 
of yours 't were pity of my life. 

All. Indeed, an' 'twere but pity of your life, 
Peter Quince. 

Bottom. How say you, masters, shall not we 
spread ourselves? {All sit down. 

Miranda. O Ferdinand, be these all mortal like 
Ourselves? More surely I did never spy 
So hideously strange a being such 
As he who hath the ass's head. 

Ferdinand. Nor I. 

Belike he hath incurr'd some wizard's spite 
And, all unwitting, wears this semblance tiU 
The wizard's anger shall be spent. But see, 
His fellows play upon his ignorance 
[34] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

And of his strange beguilement make their sport. 

Bottom. Since it is conceded by all of you 
that I have lost nothing by translation, doth it not 
follow, moreover, that I have somewhat gained by 
that same adventure? 

Flute. In good truth you have gained by 
somewhat, Nick Bottom. 

Bottom. I were an ass, indeed, an' I had not. 

Snug. And twice an ass, moreover, should he be 
that would go about to steal it from you. 

Bottom. Methinks that I could munch a sa- 
voury salad of thistles with much stomach to't. 

Quince. Your thistles be a thought too biting 
for my stomach. 

Bottom. 'Tis but likely. I wasi ever a choice 
feeder. But, masters, was there not some matter 
toward, or have you assembled yourselves but to 
greet me, and, as 't were, fittingly? 

Quince. You speak quite to the matter, good 
Bottom. That Is indeed the true end of our be- 
ginning. To behold your winsome visage In this 
unwonted place is great joy to us simple mechan- 
icals, yet we be nevertheless bold to proclaim to 
you that to shave were not amiss to one of your 
condition. For but bethink you, and you were 
[35] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



to come amongst ladies thus grievously beset with 
hair would shame us all. 

Snug. Mayhap in this strange part of the 
world 't would be thought matter for a hanging, 
and that were, indeed, a most serious business, to 
my thinking. 

Quince. But an' we talk of ladies and hang- 
ings, moreover, hither comes a monstrous little 
lady, as 't were on the instant. 

Enter Titania, tenth her tram. 

TiTANiA. Where stays the gentle mortal I 
adore, 
Whose voice unto mine ear makes harmonies 
Celestial, and whose amiable face 
Enthralls my heart in loving servitude? 

Peaseblossom. Yonder he bides. 

Moth. 'Mong others of his kind. 

Cobweb. Alike, yet different. 

MusTARDSEED. Chief mortal seen. 

Titania [^espying Bottom] What angel can 
compare unto my love.? 
Beauty itself, beholding thee, might swoon 
For envy, and the eldest sage would yield 
His place to thee on th' instant. O my love ! 

[Winds her arms about his neck. 



[36] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Thou shalt dwell with me ever. Oberon 
To thee is but a gaping pig, and thou 
To him the nonpareil of beauteous youth. 

Bottom. Good mistress atomy, though you 
show somewhat spare of flesh you are yet of a 
right comely countenance (and mine eyes do tell 
me aught without spectacles), and you can speak 
to the point upon occasion, as the present moment 
doth signify most auspiciously. 

TiTANiA. O I could list unto thy silver tongue 
Till Time itself wax'd eld and perished. 

Bottom. How say you, masters? Hath not 
mistress atomy a shrewd manner of observation an' 
she singles me out from the company of my fellows 
thus compellingly ? 

Quince. O bully Bottom, you are, as I take it, 
the simple wonder of our age. 

All. Right, master Quince. Nick Bottom is 
become a very marvel. 

Titania. Fain would I hear thy heavenly note 
again. 
Sing, wondrous mortal, while I link mine arms 
About thy peerless form, or garlands twine 
Of dewy flowers to hang about thy neck, 
That neck, of all necks most incomparable. 
Bottom [sm^s] 

[37] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Upon the hay 

Cophetua 
Did waste the hours in sighing. 

The beggar maid 

Unto him said, 
Good sir, are you a dying? 

TiTANiA. That voice would make the night- 
ingale asham'd. \_Kisses hvm 
Now must thou leave thy fellows in this place 
And speed along with me unto my court. 
Where we'll abide in loving dalliance 
Until thy mortal part's with spirit mix'd. 
Peaseblossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustardseed ! 

Peaseblossom. Ready. 

Cobweb. And I. 

Moth. And I. 

Mustardseed. And I. 

All. Your hest. 

Our queen, is still our duty and delight. 

TiTANiA. Attend us to the court, and evermore 
Give special heed unto this gentleman. 
Anticipate his ev'ry wish and feed 
Him with the choicest cates the isle doth yield. 
Exeunt Titania and Bottom, attended hy 
tram. 

[38] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Quince. Were this but told in Athens, now, 
't were not believed by aught, but we accredited 
liars all of the first water, and so esteemed. 

All. 'T were indeed but so, and truly, Peter 
Quince. 

Quince. Therefore I hold that (an' we once 
more come by our own firesides in Athens ) , we were 
best make no words of the happenings we have be- 
held but now, lest we be cried upon in the public 
streets as those that be counted no true men. 

All. That were to shame us, every mother's 
son. 

Quince. Why you speak the very gizzard of 
the matter, my masters all, and we will be silent in 
such wise as I did perpetuate, and as for Nick Bot- 
tom, let his goblin mistress do with him as she list- 
eth, for methinks we are well rid of his company, 
being, for ourselves, nothing loose-minded but so- 
ber, virtuous citizens all. 

All. That are we, Peter Quince, and we thank 
God for't. 

Enter Puck, unperceiv^d, who tweaks Quince 
molently by the nose and exit. 

Quince. O masters, which of you — 

7* suddenly twitched aside hy Puck. Re-en- 
ters with a lion's head on his shoulders. 
[39] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



All. God defends us, Peter Quince. 

Quince. Masters, it ill becomes you as sober 
citizens of Athens to treat one of yourselves thus 
unseemly. Am not I a simple workman like the 
rest of you ? Is it not my very own voice that you 
hear but now? \^Roars. 

All. God for his mercy. 

\_Exeimt all but Quince. 

Quince. These be strange manners ; an' I were 
a very lion, though being of a truth of a most 
lamblike perdition, they could not have fled from 
me with greater speeding. I will e'en after them 
to taste the reason of their knavery. 

Enter Puck. 

Puck. Now will I set these patches by the ears, 
Making such monsters of their simple selves 
As severally shall fright them when they see 
Each in the other's fearful eyeball glass'd. 

lExit Puck. 
Re-enter Quince. 

Quince. And I can spy but one of my neigh- 
hours in this predestinated place I'll be hanged. 
Re-enter Starveling, with an ozd's head. 
Quince. Bless us, Robin Starveling, what wiz- 
ardry do I spy in you? 

[40] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Starveling. Wizardry, an' you call it, Peter 
Quince? Look to your own head an' you would 
find out wizardry. There's naught strange in me. 
Re-enter Snug, with a hearts head. 

Quince and Starveling. Save us, good Snug, 
how art thou transmogrified ! 

Snug. Not so, neither, neighbours both. I am 
but Snug the joiner, as you might behold him of 
any working day, but you twain, methinks, are 
most marvellously encountered. 

Quince and Starveling. Speak for yourself. 
Master Snug: we are the same as you have known 
us ever. 

Quince. That is, I am the same, but Master 
Starveling is quite other than the simple man he 
was. 

Starveling. Thou liest, Peter Quince. I am 
but plain Robin Starveling, but you are become a 
very monster. 

Re-enter Snout, with a deer's head and horns. 

Quince. Good masters three, you are en- 
chanted, and pity o' my life it is. 'Tis I alone 
that doth remain as much mankind as I was ever. 

Snout. An' you count yourself the proper 
likeness of a man you are most horribly mistook, 
find SQ it is^ Peter Quince. 

[41] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Re-enter Flute, with the head of a crocodile. 

Flute. O neighbours all, what behold I here? 
What sorcerer has thus exorcised upon you? O 
could you be spy upon yourselves to know how un- 
like you are to plain citizens like me. 

Quince. A plain man, say you. Forsooth, 
yours is a very fearful manner of plainness, Fran- 
cis Flute. But look at me, masters all, and you 
would gaze upon a plain man. 

Starveling. Nay, look on me, in his stead. 

Snout. Not so, but on me. 

Snug. These be liars, every mother's son. 
Look upon me, I say, Francis Flute. 

Flute. Masters, hear but the simple truth. 
You are all of you deceived and have suffered most 
horrible enchantment, every mother's son of you 
but me. Heaven help you, neighbours, and undo 
the spell that each and every one may become as I 
am. [Gnashes his jaws fearfully. 

All. That were most dire affliction of any that 
be in the varsal world, Francis Flute. 

Flute. And you were not something other 
than simple mankind I could try conclusions with 
you that speak thus enviously. Indeed, I am 
something that way toward, but now. 

[Exewnt Omnes, fighting. 
[42] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Enter Puck. 
Puck. Thus have I put the simple senses all 
Of these rude knaves sorely distraught, for each 
Doth fear the other, deeming him the prey 
Of dark enchantment, while himself believes 
Himself none other than he was at first 

Lord, how simple mortals be, 
And it much doth pleasure me 
To behold them all distraught ; 
Each in fairy toils is caught, 
There to bide at my good will. 
Roaring, growling, fighting still. 

[^Exit Puck. 
Ferdinand. How like you this, Miranda? 
Hath not he, 
The gamesome elf, made merry mischief so 
'Mongst these dull wits that scarce may they once 

more 
Regain their sometime selves and liberty. 

Miranda. 'Twas merry, sooth, yet I could 
wish the spell 
Dissolv'd that made them fearsome to themselves, 
And enemies that once were friends. He that 
Hath friends hath treasure, more than wealth of 
Ind, 

[43] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



And he that hath not still is poor indeed, 
Though all the gold of Ophir 'long'd to him. 
Enter Jaques, laughing. 
JAauEs. Though I be sworn to sadness it doth 
make 
Me gladsome 'gainst my disposition 
To note the antics of these greasy fools 
Of Athens, pent within the glade where I, 
All unobserv'd, have play'd the spy upon 
'Em this full hour. How like these fustian churls 
Be to their fellows of the scepter'd throne, 
The ermine robe, the 'broider'd chasuble. 
'Tis habit makes the man, the wearer's naught. 
The fool, when he is naked, shows as sage 
As the philosopher so furnished ; 
The lout's bare hide's no worser than the king's. 
And, when their pride is fondly touch'd, all men 
Are brothers. Did not each Athenian wight 
Beholding all his fellows in their guise 
Most strange and horrible, yet deem himself 
Perch'd high above the reach of wizardry, 
And sole possessor of a countenance 
Such as is worn 'mongst ordinary folk? 
My sides do ache with mirth when I bethink 
Me of these simple churls, and of their kip. 
By Adam, in high places set, how each, 
[ 44 ] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

No matter what his state, doth ne'er perceive 

Himself glass'd in his fellow's eye, but paints 

Instead a portrait in fair colours mix'd, 

Calls it his likeness, and would have the world, 

That knows him what he is, declare its truth 

Both in the general and particular. 

This globe is peopl'd with philosophers 

And fools, methinks, by which I mean the wise 

Are the sole wearers of the motley coat 

And all men else do owe the cap and bells. 

The lover is a fool who doth proclaim 

His mistress is perfection ; the maid. 

Who thinks her swain compact of truth ; the king, 

Who stakes his crown upon a battle's point ; 

The soldier, who for glory gives his life 

And dies, a forfeit to't ; the tonsur'd saint, 

Who vows to heaven that which 'longs to men. 

O, I could moralize upon this theme 

An hour by the clock, with still grave matter left 

For melancholy contemplation. \^Exit Jaques. 

Miranda. Yon sober suited wight, meseems, 
doth make 
A play of sadness. 

Ferdinand. So, in sooth, he doth. 

His wisdom rings but hollowly, and all 
His speech declares § studied wilfulness 
[45] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Such as we note in him who acts a part 
That finds no smallest likeness in himself. 

Soft music heard, followed hy a dance of elves. 
[^Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda. 

Scene VII. 

Still another part of the island. 

Enter Prospero. 

Prospero. Now have I 'complish'd that I did 
intend, — 
Dispers'd Miranda's sadness utterly, 
And, for a brief space, made the airy dreams 
Of Master Shakescene take on form again 
As erst in other lands and climes, that so 
These married lovers might be entertain'd 
Full pleasingly, and gather from the hours 
Spent in this isle of summer, honey'd sweets 
For fond remembrance in the tide of time. 
My Ariel ! What, Ariel, I say ! [Enter Ariel. 
Thanks, gentle Ariel, who hast again 
Done all my bidding. But for thee my art 
Had halted ere its best. Once more receive 
My thanks, who am much bound to thee. 
Ariel. This time, 

Good master Prospero, I serv'd for love 
[46] 



A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 

Not duty, and I count your thanks reward 

In fullest measure. And there be nothing else 

You would of me, then, Prospero, adieu. 

Prospero. Adieu, gentlest of spirits, Ariel. 

l^Exit Ariel. 
Thunder heard and Prospero vanishes. 

Scene VIII. 
A room in the palace at Naples. 

Enter Ferdinand and Miranda. 

Miranda. O Ferdinand, my love, last night I 

slept 
And sleeping dream'd, and in my dream I saw 
The isle where first you knew me, where we told 
Each to the other our fond loves. Methought 
I was by you companion'd and the hours 
Did move to music while there pass'd before 
Our wond'ring eyes, as for our sole delight, 
A many folk, strange sorted, who did talk 
Together, and at whiles as 'twere a play 
And we beholding it. 'Twas wondrous strange. 
Ferdinand. O, my Miranda, sure some power 

we wot 
Not of doth play with us as we at chess 
Do move the pieces this way first and that, 
[47] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Because our will is to't. Know then that I 

Did dream the fellow unto yours (if it 

In very tnith were that and nothing more). 

Like you, I vis'ted that sweet spot, with you 

Beside the while, and did behold, as on 

A stage a company of players strut 

Their hour or two, a band of merry folk 

With some that wept and cried out upon fate. 

Who knoweth, my Miranda, what doth hap 

To us when we do sleep? At whiles we note 

In slumber tokens of a life apart 

From this, alike, yet not alike, and who 

May say how far the spirit wanders when 

The body sleeps ? 

Miranda. Would all my dreams were like 

To this we've wak'd from, for 'twas sweet, yet sad, 
And not so sad but that 'twas sweet the more. 
I would it were to dream again. 

Ferdinand. Who knows, 

Sweet Saint Miranda, but it will return? 
Soft music again heard. 
[^Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda. 



[48] 



n 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE; 
ACT SIXTH 



[49] 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE: 
ACT SIXTH 

Scene I. 

Venice. A street. 

Enter Shylock, followed hy a rabble of 
shouting citizens. 

First Citizen. Shjlock, how speeds thy busi- 
ness at the court? 
Where Is the pound of flesh thou covetest? 

Second Citizen. How likest thou the judge 

from Padua? 
Third Citizen. Eh, Jew, an upright judge! 
thou hast my lord 
The duke to thank for thy poor hfe. Had I 
But been thy judge a halter had been thine, 
And thou had'st swung in't, yet, beshrew my life, 
'Twere pity that good Christian hemp were 

stretch'd 
To hang a misbegotten knave like thee. 
[51] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



Fourth Citizen. Shylock, thou infidel, thou 
should'st have had 
The lash on thine old back ten score of times 
Ere they had suffer'd thee from out the court. 
Fifth Citizen. A beating shall he have, e'en 
now, the knave. \^Beats Shylock. 

Shylock \_striking about him angrily^ Aye! 
kill me, dogs of Christians, an' ye will ! 
Meseems the Jew hath no more leave to tread 
The stones on Christian streets ; he may not breathe 
The air a Christian breathes, nor gaze uncheck'd 
Upon the Christian's sky ; he hath no part 
Or lot in anything that is, unless 
A Christian please to nod the head. I hate 
Ye, brood of Satan that ye are ! May all 
The plagues of Egypt fall upon ye, dogs 
Of Christians ; all the pains — 

Fourth Citizen. Nay, gentle Jew, 

'Tis said thou must become a Christian, straight ; 
Old Shylock, turn perforce, a " Christian dog ! " 
Now, greybeard infidel, how lik'st thou this.? 
Shylock. Eternal torments blister him that 
asks. 

l^Exit Shylock, raving. 



[52] 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

Second Citizen. A sweet-fac'd Christian will 
our Shylock make. 
I would that I might be his confessor, 
To lay such swingeing penance on the knave 
As scarce would leave him space to sup his broth 
Amid the pauses of his punishment. 

{Exewnt citizens, with shouts. 

Scene H. 
Venice. A Room in Shylock's House. 

Enter Shylock and Tubal. 

Tubal. How now, Shylock ! What bitter woe 
looks from thy face? What has chanced to thee 
in the Christian's court to make thee thus dis- 
traught? 

Shylock. Tubal, Tubal, there dwells no 
more pity in the Christian breast than there abides 
justice therein. I stood for justice and mine own, 
before them all; before that smiling, smooth-faced 
judge from Padua, and with those false smiles of 
his he turned against me the sharp edge of the 
law. He forbade the shedding of one drop of the 
merchant Antonio's blood — naming therefor some 
ancient law, musty for centuries, and that still had 
[53] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



gathered dust till it would serve to bait the Jew 
with — and so I lost my revenge upon Antonio. 
More than that, good Tubal, I lost everything I 
had to lose. 

TuBAi.. Lost everything! Now, by our an- 
cient prophets, this is woe indeed. 

Shylock. Aye, good Tubal. The half my 
goods are now adjudged Antonio's ; the other half, 
upon my death, goes to the knave, Lorenzo; that 
same he that lately stole my ducats and my daugh- 
ter. 

Tubal. And merry havoc will he and thy 
daughter Jessica make of thy treasure, Shylock. 

Shylock. But there is greater woe to come, 
good Tubal. To save this poor remainder of a 
life have I this day sworn to turn a Christian. 

Tubal. Thou, turn Christian! O monstrous 
deed! Our synagogue will be put to everlasting 
shame for this. Nay, good Shylock, it must not 
be. It must not be. 

Shylock. Have I not said that I am sworn on 
pain of life? They would e'en have had my life 
almost in the open court had I not so sworn. But 
hear me. Tubal ; I will not die till that I have be- 
thought me of somQ secret, sure revenge upon 
Antonio, or failing this, upon the taunting, sneer- 
[54] 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

ing fool they call Gratiano, whom I do loathe e'en 
as I loathe Antonio. Moreover I would gladly do 
some deadly hurt unto the accursed Paduan judge, 
an' it might be so. 

Tubal. Then wilt thou still be Hebrew at the 
heart, good Shy lock.? 

Shylock. How else while yet I bear remem- 
brance of my wrongs? Have not many of our 
chosen people done this selfsame thing for ducats 
or for life? Kissed the cross before men's eyes, 
but spumed it behind their backs? As I shall do, 
erewhile. But, O good Tubal, the apples of 
Sodom were as sweet morsels in the mouth unto this 
that I must do. 

Tubal. Hebrew at heart, albeit Christian of 
countenance. 
Ay, Shylock, it is well. It is well. {Exeunt, 

Scene III. 

Venice. Interior of Samt Mark^s. 

Organ music heard. Enter a company of noble 
Venetians with the Duke and Ms train, ac- 
companied by Bassanio, Poetia, Antonio, 
Geatla^no, Nerissa and others. Following 
these, at a little distance, appear Loeenzo 
[55] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



and Jessica, the latter gorgeously attired. 
The company pauses before the font. Shy- 
lock enters from the left, led forward by a 
priest. His gaberdine has been exchanged 
for the Christian habit, and in his hand is 
placed a crucifix. 
Duke. Old Shylock, art thou well content to do 
As thus we have ordain'd, which is, that thou 
Renounce thine ancient Jewish faith, repent 
Thy sins, and take the holy, solemn vows 
A Christian takes when on his brow the drops 
Baptismal glister, and be nam'd anew 
After the Christian custom of our land? 

Shylock. Most noble duke, I am content, and 
do 
Hereby renounce my nation and my faith. 
And, which is more, raze out of mind the name 
That I have borne these three-score heavy years, 
Since it is thy command. 

Duke. Cristofero 

Shalt thou be call'd hereafter. Now, good priest, 
Thine office do with ceremonies meet. 
And make this greybeard Jew a Christian straight. 
Solemn music heard, after which Shylock is 
baptized by the priest, Antonio at the 
command of the Duke standing godfather 
[56] 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

to the Jew, who makes the required re- 
sponses in a low voice. While he is still 
Jcneeling the company converse in an under- 
tone. 
Gratiano. I much mislike this new made Chris- 
tian's face 
Nor would I trust Cristof ero for all 
His Christian name and meekly mutter'd vows. 

Portia. Nay, Gratiano, question not the heart 
Nor rudely draw aside the veil that speech 
Hangs ever 'fore the spirit. Who may say 
That e'en the best among us keeps a faith 
Loyal to every smallest clause, or does 
Not slip at whiles amid the thousand small 
Requirements of the law. And yet, we do 
Implore a gentle sentence on these sins 
Of ours, a pardon that shall make us whole. 
If, for ourselves, then trebly for the Jew 
New come, bewilder'd, to our Christian creed. 
Antonio. There will be space enow to doubt 
the Jew 
Turn'd Christian, Gratiano, when he shall 
Give cause for doubt. 'T were scantest charity 
Till then, to bear with him, as we do bear 
Ourselves unto our fellow Christians all. 
A bitter lesson hath he lately conn'd, 
[57] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



And he were mad indeed that should neglect 
To profit by't. 

Gkatiano. Belike, belike 'tis thus, 
But yet I do not like Cristofero's looks; 
I'll not be argu'd out of that, i' faith, 
And say't again, I much mislike his favour. 

Nerissa. Peace, Gratiano, dost not note the 
duke 
Commands to silence, and would speak once more? 
Thou wilt be ever talking, as thy wont. 

Duke. Cristofero, thou bear'st a Christian 
name 
From this day forth. Then look to't that thou 

dost 
In all things as a Christian, not as Jew. 

Shylock. In all things as a Christian. Yes. 
[Aside} Why that's 
Revenge! Revenge! 

Duke. So must thou quit thy house 

In Jewry, dwell mid Christian folk, and go 
With Christian folk to church on holy days. 
And wear henceforth the cross thou did'st disdain. 
Dost hearken unto us, Cristofero ? 

Shylock. I hear but to obey, dread duke ; and 
thank 
Thee for thy clemency to me, once Jew, 
[58] 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

But now, within this very selfsame hour, 
A gasping new bom Christian, all unschool'd 
In duties other Christians know full well, 
Yet earnest still, to act the Christian's part, 
With hope to better his ensample set. 

Gbatiano [^aside to Bassanio] For all thy 
gentle Portia saith but now, 
I like not such smooth terms from out those lips. 
Bassanio {^aside} Peace, Gratiano, let him say 
his say, 
He cannot now do aught to injure thee. 

[^Exeunt Duke and train with Antonio and 
friends, Louenzo and Jessica come for- 
ward. 
Jessica. How now, good father Cristofero ; 
what a pair of Christians are we both. Only 
there's this difference betwixt us, good father. I 
am a Christian for love of a husband and you have 
turned a Christian for love of your ducats. 

Shylock. Ungrateful daughter; Why did'st 
thou go forth from my house by night and rob thy 
grey-haired father of his treasure ? 

Jessica. Why? That's most easy of answer. 

Why, because I desired a Christian husband and 

there was no coming by my desire save by secret 

flight from your most gloomy chambers ; and since 

[593 



A MOTLEY JEST 



neither my Christian husband nor your daughter 
Jessica could by any kind of contriving live upon 
air alone, we had, perforce, to take with us some of 
your ducats for the bettering our condition. 
Speak thou for me, Lorenzo. Was it not e'en so? 

Lorenzo. Old man, I am sorry for that I was 
forced to take from you your daughter and your 
ducats against your good pleasure, but I must 
tell you that I loved her as myself [^5if^] nay, 
much more, my Jessica, — and by reason of this 
great love of mine, and because of your exceed- 
ing hatred towards all Christians did I take her 
from your house. And since, moreover, as the 
maid very truly says, there's no living i' the world 
without the means to live, because of this did we 
make shift to take with us from your house such 
means, as well advised you would not have your 
daughter lack for food and suitable apparel, and 
since we are now Christians all, what matters it.'' 

Shylock \_slowly^ Ay, what matters it? We 
are now Christians all, as thou say est, and, I re- 
member me that I have heard it said it is a Chris- 
tian's duty to forgive all who have wronged him. 
Therefore I forgive you, Jessica — for robbing 
your old father; and you, Lorenzo, I forgive — 
for stealing my daughter. You are each well 
[60] 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

mated. But I would be alone a while. Go, good 
Jessica. Go, son Lorenzo. 

[^Exeunt Lorenzo emd Jessica. 
Shylock [^alonej^ A curse pursue the twain 
where'er they go. 
A Christian-Jewish curse, since that should be 
Weightier than either singly. Would that I 
Might see them dead before me, while I live, — 
Such love I bear my daughter, and my, son. 

l^Gazes about the church. 
These be the images of Christian saints 
Whom I must bend the knee before when men 
Look on. And here the Virgin ; here the Christ. 
Now must I kneel ; a hundred eyes perchance. 
Peer at me through the gloom. A hundred eyes 
May see me kneel, yet shall they not perceive 
The scomer of the Christian hid within 
The humble figure of the man who kneels. 
Now, by the prophets, whom I reverence. 
And by these Christian saints whom I do scorn, 
I swear to nourish my revenge till those 
I deepest hate are dead, or sham'd before 
Their fellows. But how this may be, I know 
Not yet, for all the way were dark as night 
jBefore me, save that my revenge bums red. 

[Choir hear4 chanting in a distant chapel. 
[61] 



A MOTLEY JEST 



[^Rises from his TiTbees. 
Good fellow Christians, it may hap the Jew 
Tum'd Christian, shall yet do a harm to ye. 
Behind Cristofero's mask is still the face 
Of Shylock ; in his breast the heart unchang'd. 

[Choir heard chanting Judica me Deus. 
Yea, my good fellow Christians, I do thank 
Ye for that word, and hug it to my heart. 
Henceforth it shall be mine, when I do pray, 
Not to thy Christ, but unto Israel's God ! 
" Give sentence with me, O my God ; defend 
My cause against the hosts that wrought me ill." 
[Choir in the distance, responding Amen. 
Exit Shylock. 



[62] 



NOTE BY WILLIAM J. ROLFE, Litt.D. 

It is a tribute of no slight significance to 
Shakespeare's skill in the delineation of charac- 
ter that we instinctively regard the personages in 
his mimic world as real men and women, and are 
not satisfied to think of them only as they appear 
on the stage. We like to follow them after they 
have left the scene, and to speculate concerning 
their subsequent history. The commentators on 
Much Ado, for instance, are not willing to dismiss 
Benedick and Beatrice when the play closes with- 
out discussing the question whether they probably 
" lived happily ever after." Some, like Mrs. Jame- 
son and the poet Campbell, have their misgivings 
about the future of the pair, fearing that " poor 
Benedick " will not escape the " predestinate 
scratched face " which he himself had predicted for 
the man who should woo and win that " infernal 
Ate in good apparel," as he called her; while oth- 
ers, like Verplanck, Charles Cowden-Clarke, Fumi- 
vall, and Gervinus, believe that their married life 
will be of " the brightest and sunniest." 

Some have gone back of the beginning of the 
plays, like Mrs. Cowden-Clarke in her Girlhood of 
Shakespeare^ s Heroines, and Lady Martin (Helena 
Faucit) in her paper on Ophelia in Some of 
Shakespeare's Female Characters. 
[63] 



NOTE 

Others, like Mr. Adams, have made the experi- 
ment of continuing a play of Shakespeare in dra- 
matic form. Ernest Renan, in France, and Mr. 
C. P. Cranch, in this country, have both done this 
in the case of The Tempest, mainly with the view 
of following out the possible adventures of Caliban 
after Prospero had left him to his own devices. 

These and similar sequels to the plays are nowise 
meant as attempts to " improve " Shakespeare 
(like Nahum Tate's version of Lear, that held the 
stage for a hundred and sixty years) and sundry 
other perversions of the plays in the eighteenth 
century, which have damned their presumptuous 
authors to everlasting infamy. They are what 
Renan, in his preface, calls his Caliban, — " an 
idealist's fancy sketch, a simple fantasy of the 
imagination." 

Mr. Adams's Sixth Act of The Merchant of 
Venice is an experiment of the same kind; not, as 
certain captious critics have regarded it, a fool- 
hardy attempt to rival Shakespeare. It was orig- 
inally written for an evening entertainment of the 
" Old Cambridge Shakespeare Association." No 
one in that cultivated company misunderstood the 
author's aim, and all heartily enjoyed it. I be- 
lieve that it will give no less pleasure to the larger 
audience to whom it is now presented in print. 
[64] 



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